London by Gaslight
by labyrinths
Summary: AU. London, 1888. Gabriel Gray spends his days in quiet anonymity inside a watchmaker's shop. Claire Bennet, stumbling through a foggy net of spidery streets, discovers both an extraordinary ability and Mr. Gray. Meanwhile, Jack the Ripper roams the city.
1. Chapter 1

**London by Gaslight**

By Hedge Labyrinth

_Summary: AU. London, 1888. In a repair shop, Gabriel Gray spends his day in quiet anonymity. Claire Bennet, stumbling through a foggy net of spidery streets, discovers both an extraordinary ability and Mr. Gray. Meanwhile, Jack the Ripper roams the city with his hungry blade._

There would be ugly bruises in the morning. She tasted blood. Brody had fiercely beaten her. He might have ... she shuddered to think what might have happened if the man had not interfered.

"Miss, how do you feel?"

The fog was so thick she was not able to see the stranger. He was nothing but a dark silhouette.

"Shaken," she muttered.

He stepped forward, from the fog and into the light. Tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Clad in black. Monochromatic. He offered her his hand and she took it, rising.

"I can fetch help," he said.

"Don't leave me alone," she said at once, fearing he might dip back into the fog and abandon her in the slim pool of light where she was standing.

"A police officer ..."

She imagined the indignity of being paraded all the way to the nearest police station as she was, trembling and scared, blood smeared on her face. If her father should know, well, he would have a fit.

"I am fine. I just need to wash my face. I just need a few moments. No officers," she pleaded.

"My home is nearby. We can go there."

Her hair fell loose, curling around her shoulders. Absolutely improper. She should try to tidy herself, could hardly be expected to find a way home in this state. Perhaps he could call a carriage for her but then ... his house. She didn't know him. She almost asked him for his card before realizing how utterly foolish that would be.

"Sir, I ..."

"You shall be perfectly safe with me, I would not ... you are safe," he said, clearing his throat. "I give you my word."

She looked around, at the city filled with fog. Earlier that day she had felt bold, venturing with Brody into these streets and now the boldness had fled. Gutters, doorways, dark passages, and staircases loomed ominously around her. There was a shuffling just a few metres from there, a drunkard's strangled laughter. Public houses left and right, and not a policeman in sight.

She took his arm, ducking her head and walking quickly.

A few blocks ahead half a dozen people were gathered around an earnest preacher. When they walked by, the preacher turned in her direction and pointed a finger at her, obviously confusing her with a prostitute. Claire's head ducked even lower and her grip around the man's arm tightened.

A piano-organ grinder played his music as several women walked by him, melting into the fog. She heard the hoofs of a horse nearby, but did not see a carriage when she looked up. How thick the fog was!

Suddenly, a doorway materialized in front of them and the man took out his keys. They were before a small shop with a sign reading "Gray and Sons." He let her in and Claire found herself in a shadowy room with a multitude of clocks hanging on the walls. Tick-tock, the room went. He closed the door, making a bell jingle and moved forward, guiding her towards the back of the shop, past a work table and up a narrow staircase.

There was no proper receiving parlour. Instead, they emerged onto a large room with bookcases on every wall. This room lead into another room, equally crammed with books. He pointed to a door and she went through it and stood in the bathroom decorated all in greens. She washed her face and looked at herself in the circular mirror.

With the blood gone it was evident that there had been no damage to her. She could have sworn there would be bruises. She leaned forward, trying to spot the tell-tales signs. Her skin looked pale and unblemished. She made quick work of the hair, pushing it back into place, trying to smooth stray hairs.

When she emerged, the man was sitting in a chair, a book in his hands. She caught the title "Activating Evolution," before he closed it and set aside, standing up politely as she walked into the room.

"Thank you," she said clasping her hands behind her back and smiling.

"There is nothing to thank me for," he said, looking uncomfortable.

"I'm Claire Bennet," she said stepping forward and stretching out her hand.

He raised an eyebrow at her and she remembered what her mother had told her: a lady does not introduce herself. It was so gauche. Sandra blamed these and other quirks of Claire's personality for her distinctive lack of a fiancé. She needled her daughter, reminding her that Gtretchen – who was three months her junior – was already engaged. Claire did not reply that she did not wish for a husband. She might have married West, if he'd had the courage to ask her. But that was two years before and now he was in India, miles and miles from her.

"Gabriel Gray," he said.

She thought she could hear clocks ticking beneath her feet in the uncomfortable silence that befell them. Clearly he meant to add nothing other than his name and stood nervously observing her, stiff faced and serious.

"I do not want to impose on you, but perhaps you might fetch me a carriage? I need to return to Cadogan Square."

"Of course," he said, but did not make a move towards the door, instead keeping his focus on her and speaking again. "What were you doing tonight? You wear a shabby coat but also good quality shoes and talk like a lady."

"Oh," Claire said looking down at the shoes, which were her own, and the coat, which had been borrowed from one of the maids. "Brody took me to see Isaac. He invited us to a party. Isaac is a painter. He is making a portrait of me and he said he was showing some of his paintings today. Only my father, he wouldn't let me come to such a gathering, so I told Brody and he agreed to bring me."

"And Brody is the man who ..."

"Was a friend of my family," she said quickly, her words clipped. She was sure to tell her father exactly what kind of disgusting toad Mr. Mitchum had for a son. Well, not exactly. She would omit the trip to Whitechapel and the meeting with Mr. Gray. He need not know that.

He nodded. He seemed preoccupied with something, eyebrows furrowed.

"What?" she asked.

"I thought you had a cut on your forehead," he said. "When I saw you, I could have sworn there was a cut there."

Claire pressed the tips of her fingers against that spot. She had thought so too. Brody had pushed her down and when she would not relent, struggling and screaming, he punched her, then hit her with a sharp stone.

"No. I am lucky," she said, fingers dropping.

Gabriel nodded. Behind the glasses and the awkward silences, he was good looking. The thought took her by surprise and she blushed. Misinterpreting her discomfort, he excused himself and headed downstairs, to find her carriage.

"You must go, quickly," he said rushing up the stairs a few minutes later, long-limbed and agile. "The driver will not wait long."

So she did, running out the door, bell jingling behind her. Claire was half-way to her home and safely in the hansom cab when she realized she had not said goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

By Hedge Labyrinth

_Summary: AU. London, 1888. Gabriel Gray spends his day in quiet anonymity inside a repair shop. Claire Bennet, stumbling through a foggy net of spidery streets, discovers both an extraordinary ability and Mr. Gray. Meanwhile, Jack the Ripper roams the city with his hungry blade._

Claire woke up late, donned an embroidered green robe and went downstairs to the library. The title of Gabriel's book had sparked her curiosity. She thought she had seen it before and looked for it among the neat volumes her father kept, but it turned out she was wrong. There was no copy of _Activating Evolution_. She stopped in front of the canvas where her portrait was taking shape. Isaac came on Thursday's to paint her, but that Thursday there would be no posing. Claire's mother had something else in mind.

Claire considered sneaking into the kitchen for breakfast. But by now the cook would already be in full swing, chopping up an eel, preparing the supreme de saumon Richelieu, peering over the saddle mutton and boiled fowls which would be served with an appropriate spirit – hock with the oysters and sherry after the soup – on the fine china her mother loved. Perhaps, if Claire was quiet, she might tiptoe back upstairs and evade Sandra for another hour or so.

"Claire Bennet," Sandra said. "It's past twelve o'clock and you are not dressed."

"Mother," Claire sighed, stopping as she reached the staircase and turning around.

"Dr. Suresh is coming to pay a visit and you have not even taken your bath."

"For the last time mother, Mohinder doesn't like me. He likes Gretchen."

A double lost cause, in Claire's opinion, because not only was Gretchen already engaged, rumours circulate she had been pushed into said engagement after some unsavoury talk of Sapphic love. Claire couldn't refute or confirm the matter, but Gretchen had once – after drinking a bit too much sherry – planted a little kiss on Claire's lips. A matter which Claire kept strictly to herself, only divulging it once to West, who shrugged and confessed it came as no surprise.

"Claire, you are nineteen," Sandra began.

Claire crossed her arms, already familiar with this speech.

"You won't be young and pretty forever. One day soon you'll have to find a suitable husband. And I don't mean one of those silly boys who follow you around, like Brody."

"Oh, you needn't worry about Brody. I'm not talking to him ever again."

"Good. Then it's the perfect moment for you and Mohinder ..."

"Mom," Claire said pressing her hands against her temples. "Please, not again the dozen or so reasons why doctor Mohinder is such a wonderful catch. I'm going to my room. I'll be down later."

Claire stomped up four steps before Sandra spoke again.

"He's not coming back and you know that. For God's sake Claire, West is gone."

Claire did not reply. She slammed the door to her room so hard she thought the house might crumble. But it did not, and the buzz of activity taking place on the first floor continued, uninterrupted and uninterested in the attacks of melodrama of a young woman.

Not long afterwards, the maid was there to help her with her hair and dress. Her stays were so tight she could hardly breath. The dress had a square shouldered bodice with little yellow embroidered flowers, tailored to show her slimness. A month before she had admired the freedom a lady in knickerbockers seemed to enjoy, prompting Sandra to warn her Claire would never ride a bicycle. A lady rides a horse or in a carriage, her mother reminded her.

"Bollocks," Claire muttered. If she did get married she would ride whatever she wanted and she would eschew a bustle for the rest of her life. For now, she went rigidly downstairs and greeted Mohinder.

"Miss Bennet," he said polite as ever.

"Mr. Suresh," she said.

There were more than a dozen other people invited to the little soiree, but both Claire and Mohinder were uncomfortably aware that the gathering had been arranged for the sole purpose of sticking them together in the same room. She looked at her father, who was having an animated conversation with Matt Parker. Inspector Parker had been working with Noah for nearly three years and he was a frequent visitor at the Bennet household. Noah and Matt's discussions of the cases making the rounds in Scotland Yard thrilled Claire, even if Sandra tried to shush them every time they began to twitter about this or that criminal.

"Do you think Gretchen will be coming this afternoon?" Mohinder asked her, hopeful, after they had been standing together for what seemed like an inordinately long time. He'd once had a pretty young wife – Maya or Maria, Claire could not recall it clearly – but she had killed herself years before. Now he walked through London, all serious business and talk, only cheered by the occasional appearance of skinny, shy Gretchen Berg.

"I think not."

"Oh," Mohinder said.

"She's meeting Annie for tea at The Blue Willow tonight," she said, because she felt sorry for him, with his lips so stiff, and if she said nothing, he would spend the next two hours dutifully accompanying her and speaking empty lines as he must, but never enjoying a single second of it. Now he had an excuse to escape.

"Well, that is fortunate. I was thinking of stopping there myself."

Claire smiled. If things had been slightly different, perhaps Mohinder could have married Gretchen. God know she liked him well enough, as a friend if nothing else, which was perhaps sufficient and more than Gretchen could expect from James Martin, filthy rich, unattractive and fond of drinking. Claire could end up married to a similar, slimy catch. Despite this, she could not make herself flirt with Mohinder, or even pretend the slightest interest. A hurried excuse later and the young doctor was retreating from her side.

"Scared him off again, did you?" Lyle asked, apparently drawn to her by the air of misery Claire radiated. "What did you say?"

"The usual 'How do you do?' and 'How is the weather?'"

"How droll."

"You have better ideas? What shall I say? 'Dear, Mohinder, I think my bosom heaves with uninhibited passion for you?'"

Lyle snickered. "Oh, boy oh boy. I think he's sneaking out. Mother will have a fit."

Claire groaned and leaned against her younger brother for support. She would get a bitter scolding for driving Mohinder away. Not that Claire had done anything to upset him, but someone had to be blamed.

"Hard to think it's any trouble to reel him in. I mean, if Gretchen can keep him interested ..."

"You sound like mother," Claire said acidly.

"Well, maybe she is right. Maybe you have lofty standards."

"Easy for you to say. You get to marry whoever you damn well please."

"Not anytime soon, I hope. How long till supper?" he asked taking out his open-face pocket watch. "All this talk of ugly old maids is making me hungry."

It was entirely improper, but Claire elbowed Lyle so hard he let out a little "oompf" and the watch fell from his hands. She heard the crunching of glass with a satisfied smirk. Lyle looked horrified.

"Don't start crying. I can fix it," Claire said with a sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

By Hedge Labyrinth

There were two things that Gabriel Gray had given up: the first, and easiest, was women. He had never been a magnet for ladies. Sitting in his little shop, collecting as much dust as some of the objects laying on the shelves, he simply watched the world pass him by. He had fancied some women, true, but always quietly and from afar.

Prostitutes selling kisses for a penny huddled in the streets, and you could stumble into a brothel and buy yourself pleasant company for the night for 10 shillings without being afraid of getting bilked. But he had never tasted none of that – too afraid, too shy to even attempt a transaction of the sort. Elle had been his first and only lover in the carnal sense; a half-forgotten, half-hearted attempt at courting a girl when he was seventeen the only other woman worth mentioning.

His mother hated Elle, called her a hussy. Gabriel Gray, aware of the scant possibilities his watchmaking and dour face offered, dismissed any objections, plodded forward and imagined a vague future with her.

It was hard to tell what was truth and what was fact with Elle. Sometimes she said she was a rich runaway. Others, she confessed her father had beaten her and prostituted her from the age of twelve. The truth was probably closer to the latter for he knew she had been indulging in some shady business in Paris, where he found her on a rare business trip. He returned to London with some merchandise, many spare parts and incredibly enough, a woman at his side. Even though he never told his mother that he met Elle in a Parisian music hall, she suspected something of the sort. And even though Elle tried playing the ingénue for a bit, even attempting to bake pies and set his table, she soon grew tired of her life with him. She complained she had been deceived, that Gabriel had made her think he was more than what he seemed back in Paris – she meant money, he had little. He had never attempted to lie. He'd said he owned his own business, was a man if independent means and it should have been enough for a young woman looking for a hard-working groom. It was not.

Soon, Elle was gone along with a great deal of money from his safe and all the clothes he had bought her. He heard she was being kept by one Peter Petrelli, some rich and handsome fellow who was the darling of high-society. Once, he thought he had even glimpsed her getting into a carriage and there had been a young, dashing man next to her so unlike Gabriel he hurried in the other direction, pulling his hat down to hide his face.

His mother said it was God's punishment for living in sin with a harlot.

Gabriel thought it was his punishment for being a little insect of a man who could not afford to keep a beautiful mistress.

After being so greatly humiliated by his experience with Elle, he had sworn himself off the fairer sex and it was easy, though bitter, to admit he was not meant to catch the eye of a lady. Serious, composed and down to earth, he scrubbed himself off romantic pretensions and did not pause on the subject of women.

But he was pausing that evening. It was late and he had been working on a watch for the better portion of the night, never getting very far because he kept going back to the blonde girl with the pretty eyes. Claire.

There was something about her. Something he couldn't put his finger on.

Something special.

Whatever it was, it was making his work incredibly slow and it had become tiresome and annoying. His lack of progress made him want to just say to hell with it and give up on the second promise.

He raised his head, looked around his lonely workshop and considered it.

He hadn't used it in three months. He hadn't thought about it.

The clocks looked accusingly at Gabriel and he hunched down over his work, fingers tired and his brain ticking, ticking.

It would be so much easier if he were to pick the watch apart with his mind. No sooner had he thought this, that several instruments lifted from the workbench, floating next to him. He slammed them down.

"No," he muttered, gritting his teeth.

It was like a little tug in his head, the desire to use the power. Bleary-eyed, exhausted, he shambled up the stairs in search of sleep.

#

In a dimly-lit opium den, Isaac Mendez lay among embroidered cushions, staring at the ceiling. The pipe had slipped from his hands and he floated in a soft haze, colours shifting beneath his eyelids.

Suddenly, he saw a violent flash of red. Alarmed, he sat up. His hands fumbled over his satchel, searching for the sketch book and the pencils. He wasn't sure what he was doing, hands flying and moving upon the page in a feverish pitch.

Someone was laughing nearby. It rang loud in his ears. He wished to cover them but could not take his hands off the sketch pad.

Finally, the pencil rolled from his hands and into a dark corner of the room. He looked at the drawing. Two figures in the shadows. The outline of a man who was nothing but shadows, his face darkness. A woman at his feet, blond hair streaming on the ground.

And the dash of red, like a flower blooming by her skull.

#

Polly Nichols was walking in the fog, hoping against hope for a customer. She was cold, the gin she had sipped at Spitalfields had long vaporized from her veins, and she ached for a bed. But she had no money for a flea-ridden matress. She intended to make the fourpence she needed and then collapse in the first lodging-house she could find. If she could make a little extra, to buy herself some breakfast come morning, it would be even better.

She spotted a smartly dressed chap a few feet ahead and extending him her best smile, headed his way.

"Good evening, sir," she said.

From afar, she had thought his clothing very fine, but now she could see the outfit was of good quality, but well-worn. Still, it was better than what the louses who frequently hired her sported. He was also good looking and she thought it might well be her lucky evening.

"Care for a little company?" she asked.

For a moment she thought he would refuse her, his eyes fixing on her with disdain. Then something seemed to change and he smiled at her.

He grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

The sign said "open" but there was no one at the counter. He must be upstairs, in his home. Claire contemplated waiting. Impatience discarded logic and she made her way to the back of his shop, quickly going up the stairs. She intended to knock but the door yielded before her fingers, creaking open.

Claire pressed a hand against her lips, hesitating for a moment. He was probably having breakfast and she should wait for him to finish. But then, she'd come all this way and did not want to stand outside his door, frozen, for the fifteen minutes or so it might take him to discover her there. Thus, she walked in, the little bag containing Lyle's watch dangling from her fingers.

It was all as she remembered it: the dark flat with the bookcases, a chair here and there. She stepped forward, boldly calling out for him.

"Mr. Gray," she said.

No one replied and as she stood in front of two doors she wondered where he might be. She heard a clock strike ten, a sound which came from the room on the left and for some reason she took this to be an indication, a sign of his presence if you will, and turned the doorknob.

This large room was much like the long hall full of bookcases she had traversed. Here too were books and shelves brimming with things: gears and clogs and boxes. But unlike the other portion of the flat which was oddly unadorned, bleak even, the little studio contained an explosion of objects. Statuettes, four small oil paintings upon the left wall, a Chinese folding screen, a Persian carpet, even a potted aspidistra and a fern next to a window. The wallpaper was a striking mauve and white which her mother would have never allowed. An extremely large rococo mirror took up a great deal of the right wall. Two blue and white vases had been set at each side of the mirror, peacock feathers standing in them.

This was him, she realized. His taste.

And there he was, half-laying upon a curious black desk with a pattern of tiny seashells, fast asleep. He had taken off his glasses and his dark hair half-hid his face.

"Mr. Gray," she repeated.

He did not stir. For the first time, Claire felt mortified. She stretched out a hand and touched his shoulder, slightly tapping it.

"Mr. Gray."

He raised his head, threw it back and snapped his eyes open.

And tossed her against the mirror.

Truth be told he did not touch her. All Claire saw was his open palm and then she felt the air being pressed out of her lungs as she was smashed violently against the wall. She lay pinned, butterfly-like, against the wall and she knew it was him doing this.

Even though he was half-way across the room.

Event though he hadn't even laid a finger against her.

She knew.

Just as quickly as she had been tossed away the hold on her subsided and she fell to the ground with a loud thump. He rushed towards her, his eyes very wide, nearly tripping and falling before her.

"You startled me ... oh, please forgive me," he said in one hurried breath.

Claire, who was still reeling from the knowledge that this man had done this, from the pain and the shock, did not process his words. Instead, she winced and raised her right arm. A jagged, long piece of glass was sticking out in a most distressing angle, blood running down her wrist.

"Be still. Don't touch it," he warned her. "I'll fetch bandages."

She watched the glass glint, fascinated, and without paying any heed to his words – a most distressing characteristic, her mother always said – pulled the glass out.

"Oh, for God's sake, you'll bleed to death!"

He was on his knees, wiping out a handkerchief and trying to tie it around her wrist when he paused, his breath catching in his throat.

They both watched, in mute wonderment, as the deep laceration began to knit itself together, flesh healing so quickly a few second later there was no scar, no trace of any injury. They were quiet.

He sat back on his heels and looked at her and after all this commotion all Claire could think was: _This is entirely improper. He is far too close to me. Mother would be furious. I have blood on the cuffs of my dress.  
_

Claire frowned, confused, not knowing which was worse: the blood or the man who was staring at her. What would Sandra say? Claire, dear, it is so unladylike to be injured by a man who hasn't even been properly introduced. Specially when he owns a cheap carpet. No matter _how_ good looking he is.

Finally, he spoke, drowning out Sandra's imaginary, nagging voice.

"You are ... you are ... did Dr. Suresh send you?"

"What?"

"You are a special. Did he send you?"

"What are you talking about? What did you do?" she asked, standing up and brushing pieces of glass from her skirt.

"Telekinesis. It's .. ah, remote mental influence over objects."

"Not that. Me. This," she said touching her arm.

"I didn't do that," he told her.

"What?"

"You did that."

"This is insane," she whispered, rushing towards the door.

He pressed his back against it, blocking her path.

"Wait. Give me three minutes to explain."

"Move."

"Miss ... what was it, Miss Bennet?"

"Oh, if you are going to fling me through the air you might was well call me Claire. Either way, please move."

He blinked, looking a little confused. "Claire, can I have three minutes of your time?"

"Mr. Gray," she said sternly.

"Three," he said raising three fingers to accentuate his point. Slowly, he stepped away from the door and moved towards the desk, snatching a book and handing it to her. It was that thing she had seen him reading the other day, _Activating Evolution_. She took it hesitantly, almost afraid it would bite her.

"The bookmark," he said.

Claire opened the book to a page showing a diagram of a human body. It had many little arrows and symbols running all around it. She turned the page.

"It's about specials. People with abilities. The way Mr. Suresh explained it to me, many of the supernatural phenomena people have believed for ages could have natural causes. It could be people who have unusual abilities. Things like withcraft and monsters could be explained by these abilities. Things like the Fox sisters."

"The who?"

"Forty years ago in the United States," he said approaching her and gently taking the book from her hands, trying to find the right page. "These sisters, they began to hear noises in their houses. Like someone knocking at their walls. They thought it was a ghost. They are part of the Spiritism movement, working as mediums, but Chandra believes it's just natural phenomena. They can probably create visual illusions. Here."

Claire looked at the page he was pointing out. It said: "Kate Fox, Leah Fox and Margaret Fox manifested abilities at an unusually early age."

"You have stories about clairvoyance. Like Cassandra. Stories about magicians who can accomplish impossible feats like the Count of Saint Germain. It's not just fairy tales, it is real. People like you and me exist. Mr. Suresh is studying people like us all throughout England. It's all here, in the book. Have you heard about Mendel? Evolutionary strategies We are the next step."

"Next step to what?" she said pressing her hands against her forehead. "This is horrid. We are ... freaks. A spectacle. Human curiosities."

She couldn't keep her voice from sounding slightly shrilled and scared. She had a vision of herself, on display, with a man sticking knives into her. Sword swallowing, taken to another level.

"No, no," he said putting the book aside and clutching her hands. "Nothing like that. Some abilities may be unpleasant, but you ... why, your ability is marvelous. To be forever young, forever beautiful."

She turned her head up sharply. Fear spread, grew stronger. "Forever young?"

"I imagine so," Gabriel said, his hands still holding hers. "Your skin healed. Wouldn't any wrinkles simply fade? Wouldn't you remain whole and healthy?"

He blabbered on. She did not hear the rest. The word "forever" was the only thing she could think about. Forever. Eternity. She pictured it as an endless dark corridor through which she ran. No light to ever show her the way out.

Claire ripped her hands away from him and rushed out the door. She almost fell when she was going down the staircase, the long dress restricting her movements and making her stumble. She felt a stab of pain and thought she might have injured her ankle. She smiled wrily.

No matter. It would heal.

Tears fell down her cheeks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

Waiting for her in the parlour was torture. He did not call on ladies. He had no idea how to act, how to behave. Specially when he had saved said lady from being raped a few nights before, only to then slice her arm open with a piece of glass. He was still unsure of how he had managed the courage to save her that first time and later toss her against a wall. He supposed it had been nothing but instinct, for Gabriel Gray would neither act the principal part of hero or villain.

When she appeared before him, he sat up quickly.

"I have a delivery for you," he said setting the little bag on a table with a vase. "You left something behind two days ago."

Claire snatched the bag and opened it. "My brother's watch," she said.

"I imagine that's why you came to see me," Gabriel said. "I brought something else too."

He placed the book he had been carrying under his arm gently on the table, as though it were made of fine porcelain. He tipped his Bowler hat a tad, not daring to look up at her. He was still ashamed of what had transpired, the distress he had caused her.

"I thought you might like to read it. If you feel it is inappropriate, feel free to throw it away. I apologize profusely."

He turned away and felt her fingers around his arm. It almost made him gasp, surprised at the gesture and then she had slid before him, the book clutched between her hands.

"Would you like to go for a walk ?"

Gabriel did not know how to answer. He cleared his throat, trying to bid time, torn between uttering a yes or declaring the empathic "no" that he should. He was certain being near Claire was a bad idea. The proximity of another special produced a certain tingling sensation he disliked and a part of him was already thinking "What if I could have that power? Wouldn't it be wonderful to be indestructible?" while the other was remembering the now deceased Brian Davis.

Plus, their last encounter had been disastrous.

"Come on," she said, taking the initiative and pulling him with her.

Outside, it was a gray day. Gabriel leaned on his umbrella almost as a crutch, watching his shoes intently as they walked quietly up the street.

"Five years ago I sneaked out to see a performance by The Sullivan Brothers Carnival . They're an American group and they were touring Europe at the time," Claire said. "They played six nights in London. There was a lady with tattoos all over her body and a knife-thrower. They had a tent filled with curiosities: embalmed mermaids and a life-size stuffed orangutan. In a dusty, dark corner there was a jar with an odd, malformed fetus.

"It floated in an amber liquid, two heads fused to one torso. Its eyes were closed, but I thought I could feel it staring at me. I went to look at it every day for the next five days, the sad little fetus crushed against the glass."

Gabriel felt her fingers tighten against his arm, digging into him, but he did not protest.

"When the carnival left town, I thought: it must be all alone now in a corner, in the dark."

Claire looked up at him and he took off his hat, pressing it against his chest in earnest contrition. "I am sorry for ever saying a word about it."

"No, it is not your fault. I would have found out eventually," she said breezily.

"Still, I lacked tact."

"How do you explain such a thing, though? Such an anomaly?"

"Not an anomaly. You are special. Just like me."

"I suppose," she said opening the book and looking at the first page. "What a coincidence."

"What?"

"The Diogenes Club, that's their symbol. They must have published it," she said pointing towards an ornate "D" stamped beneath the title and author's name. "My father is a member of the club."

"What is the Diogenes Club?"

A flash of amazement crossed her face. His ignorance must be amusing. He knew nothing about society clubs and places. He was only a watchmaker.

"It is a gentleman's club. Extremely dull. My brother went there once – father obtained a membership for him – and said it was dreadful. It's like one gigantic reading room, quieter than a tomb and more solemn than a library. He said you can be expelled for coughing too loudly."

"Oh," he said, picturing the men in their fine coats and top hats covered in silk. It made him feel rather foolish right then, his old Bowler and heavy checkered jacket no doubt less stylish that they ought to have been.

"Chandra must be a member too. Father has an edition of Macbeth commissioned by the club, but I did not think they'd print a medical text."

"I am not sure you'd call it a medical text. It is highly speculator in nature. Dr. Suresh says this is but the beginning of his research."

"Funny, Mohinder has mentioned nothing about it. Not that we do much except discuss the weather patterns."

Once again Gabriel felt lost. He blinked. "Mohinder?"

"Chandra's son. Dr. Mohinder Suresh. One day I'm going to ma-rry him. That's how my mother says its 'ma-rry,'" Claire said, rolling her eyes. "Highly speculative in nature as well, though hope springs eternal."

"Hmmm," Gabriel said, already picturing it: a handsome, young man taking her to the opera or a dance. He couldn't have expected a pretty, young lady of a certain class to be walking around London without a handful of suitors to carry her gloves and offer her their arm. The only things Gabriel carried were crates with spare parts and the only woman who had ever offered him her arm had stolen money from his safe.

They lapsed into an odd silence punctuated by the sound of carriages passing by. Gabriel was thinking of starting to turn back, to take her home – surely she'd had enough of him – when Claire spoke again.

"It seems much more fun. With you," she said. "Your power. It seems much more fun than mine. You get to _do_ something."

"The telekinesis?"

"Yes."

"I try not to use it."

"Why not?"

_Guilt_, he thought.

"Someone might see me," he said, which was not the absolute truth but was not a lie either. He was well aware that it would be unwise, to say the least, to greet clients with tools flying in the air.

"Yes. I guess we must keep it to ourselves," her eyebrows were knitted together. "I wonder if I can heal from everything. Like, if I were to cut my toe ..."

He had a brief mental image of Claire going into a bathtub and chopping off a finger. Alarmingly, she was not wearing much clothing in his mind as she stepped into said bathtub.

"Would you do that?" he asked, his cheeks reddening.

Claire shook her head. "I don't know. How much have you done with it? With your power? Have you experimented with it?"

"Manipulating gears and springs mainly. I fixed your watch like that."

"Oh, yes," she said. "Lyle will be happy. He made a fuss when I wrecked it."

"The internal mechanism wasn't damaged. It wasn't that hard to fix," he said, glad they were moving into the familiar terrain of timepieces. He could drift through those waters with ease. Society talk, cutting toes, those were definitely not things he could speak about with out panicking.

"I owe you money. For the repair."

"No, it's the least I could do after ... that," he mumbled.

She smiled brightly at him. "It's fine. I'm glad. It scared me for a moment, but I'm glad. We found each other, didn't we? Two specials. There must not be too many people like us floating through London."

"I wouldn't know," he said.

"It will be less frightening this way. It's a reason to be friends," she said.

Gabriel did not know what she intended and for a good minute he simply stared at her.

Claire stood on her toes to reach closer to him, whispering. "You're supposed to say you'd be happy to be my friend."

"Yes, of course," he said. "It would be lovely if we were friends."

They laughed. He normally got laughed at, not laughed _with_, so he took advantage of the moment. Later, once he had returned Claire to her doorstep, Gabriel walked away and rubbed the back of his neck and thought: I should not see her again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

"... the thing is, she was also a _special_."

Claire stopped outside the library, her hand almost touching the door. A maid had told her Matt Parkman had arrived just twenty minutes before and was talking to her father. Claire was going to ask the two men if they would mind conversing in the dinning room while Isaac painted her portrait. Perhaps she might also have a chance to chat with Matt for a few minutes – Isaac was late, a natural occurrence on a weekend – about the cases doing the rounds in Scotland Yard. She loved to hear about his detective work, the kind of things her father never discussed with her.

"What power?" her father asked.

"Nothing spectacular. Something to do with animals. Mary Ann Nichols could manipulate dreams."

"Two prostitutes killed in less than two weeks."

"Both with powers. Both were studied by Chandra. That isn't all," Matt said.

"What else could there be?"

"I had a message just half an hour ago: Chandra's laboratory was burglarized. He was killed by the thief."

"What is missing?"

"His son is not sure yet, but it seems a large number of files have gone astray."

"Claire is in those files."

"I know. That is why I came."

Claire pushed the door a crack. She could see her father sitting in a large chair, sombre-faced. Matt stood in front of him, hands in his pockets.

"Damn Chandra and his research," Noah muttered. "He says he'll never publish it and then the club makes five-hundred copies of his bloody book. Somebody has read it and knows. So, what do Linderman and Mycroft say?"

"Our primary focus is to keep the authorities from discovering the abilities of the dead women or connecting them with Chandra. Our secondary directive is to find the killer. A few dead prostitutes are of little concern to the club. But the attention it is generating is not."

Noah shifted his position and Claire thought he might have seen her, but his eyes were fixed on Matt and did not pause on her.

"Noah, the press club will have a field day. The reporters are calling him "Leather Apron" and are shouting the ghastly story all through London. Such attention places us in danger."

"Do you think I do not understand?" Noah said angrily. "We must not have another Spring Heel Jack running through London."

"Actually, a Spring Heel Jack would not be a problem. He was rather useful, once we caught up with him. Mycroft fears this one might be a disgruntled _normal_ angry at people with powers. If he's a normal he is no good to us. If a special, then we ought to bring him to the club. He could be put to work ..."

"Yes, I know," Noah said with a dismissive wave of his hand, "a killer has his uses. Bag and tag. I have much more experience in these matters than you, boy."

Matt looked down at his shoes, apparently abashed by the comment.

"It could very well be anyone," Noah muttered, deep in thought. "Comb the gutters. Talk to all your informants. Someone will have seen something. Someone will have a clue. I'll also have you pull Claire's file from the club's archives. We have copies of Chandra's files, do we not?"

"You know how he was these past few months. It's hard to say," Matt muttered.

"Tomorrow head over there and take her file, then cross reference the other documents ..."

Claire stepped back quietly. She went to her room and grabbed some money, her coat and her purse. With equal secrecy she headed towards the front of the house. She turned to see if anyone was following her. But the hallway was empty. Noah and Matt had not noticed her and were still in the library. She opened the front door and found herself face to face with Isaac Mendez.

"Miss Bennet," he said. "I was about to knock. May I come in?"

"Not today Isaac," she said, quickly pushing him away.

"Miss Bennet? I thought you were sitting for your portrait."

"Come back tomorrow!" she cried.

#

Gabriel had a piece of buttered toast in his left hand and a cup of tea in the right one. When she barged into his store he simply froze, cup in mid air, and stared at her.

"Gabriel, we are going to the Diogenes Club today," she said, all out of breath.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, putting the cup down carefully on a little white saucer.

"I'll explain in the cab. Do you have a formal suit?"

"I have a vest and a coat and ..."

"Not a vest like that?" she asked pointing to the stripped thing he was wearing. It was a positively ugly clothing item.

"What? Yes."

"It will not do. You'll need a black dress suit."

Gabriel frowned. "I have something. I can change, but I'd like to know what I'm supposed to be doing at that club."

"Oh, pretending you are my brother so you can sneak in and steal something."

"Well, if it's only _that_," he said sarcastically. "What on Earth are you up to?"

"This is taking forever. Look, I'll pick the clothes myself," she said, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him towards the stairs.

Gabriel flinched, wrestled himself free and looked down at her critically. "Wait here."

Claire sat behind the counter, swinging her legs back and forth. His chair was too tall and her feet were far from touching the floor. When she heard him and turned around she was ready to make a quip about the long time it took him to simply don a different pair of trousers and a shirt, but she stopped.

He had changed into proper black trousers, a black vest cut low to display an ample shirt front. He had a black necktie and, of course, a prominent watch chain. The clothes were of a good cut and better quality than those he had been wearing earlier and his deportment seemed less awkward.

"Come on," she said, quickly heading outside.

#

Inside the Hansom cab, Gabriel was quiet. She handed him one of her brother's visiting cards and he looked at it closely.

"You'll need it to enter the club."

"Won't they know I don't look anything like him?"

"Lyle's only been there once. They will not remember."

"Claire, must we really do this?"

"I need to look at that file. Don't you want to look at yours?"

Gabriel nodded slowly.

"Besides, it would be useful to discover what "Leather Apron" knows about us," Claire added.

"Why?" Gabriel asked, looking confused as he stuffed the card in a pocket. "You said he had killed two prostitutes from Whitechapel. What would he want with a watchmaker and a lady?"

"We don't know what he wanted from those women."

"Isn't it obvious? It was a random act of rage. Murders have no real motives," Gabriel said dismissively.

"On the contrary," Claire replied. "It may reveal a pattern. And if we know why he killed them, we may be able to stop him."

She had heard such things from Matt Parkman himself, speaking about the work of Mr. Dupin in Paris and his capacity to find the solution to a series of baffling killings even though he was not a detective. Mr. Dupin had succeeded where others had failed by employing reason and a systematic approach to the deaths. Claire admired the complexity of the cases Dupin tackled, even if she had heard a friend of Noah's once say Dupin had been a "very inferior and crude fellow." It happened during an afternoon meeting with Mycroft, a somewhat frequent guest at their household, and a host of other people. Her father had agreed with the opinion, but Claire vigorously dissented and called the distinguished guest who voiced it - none other than the younger brother of Mycroft - "a wooden-headed, pompous fool." Her outburst had caused quite some embarrassment to Noah and sent her mother into a panic because the whole exercise had been intended to introduce Claire to Mycroft's very single 28 year old brother. The _fracase_ was one of the reasons why her father now refused to discuss his work when in her presence: he said Claire took these things too seriously.

"How?"

"There will be a public inquest and I know exactly which surgeon will look at the bodies: Police Surgeon Emmanuel Schwartz. His assistant will be his nephew and apprentice: Mr. Zachary Schwartz. Zach may be able to find some answers to the question of the motive during his examination."

"Claire," Gabriel said turning fully to face her, "why on Earth would we be discussing a crime with a surgeon? What does it have to do with _us_?"

Gabriel's eyebrows seemed to meet in the middle as he frowned deeply.

Claire hesitated for a few seconds. She spoke steadily, but in a low voice. "That night, when you found me, nobody else came. I heard people walking by but no one stopped even though I was screaming. You were the only one who helped me. No one else is going to stop for these women."

"The authorities will. Your father is investigating the matter."

"I don't trust my father," Claire said, leaning an elbow against the window, knuckles against her lips. "He said a killer has his uses."

Claire looked at Gabriel. He seemed concerned and sighed, taking off his glasses and pinching his nose. She took the glasses from him and peeked through the lenses, squinting.

"Excuse me, I can't see a thing without them," he said, trying to pry them from her hands.

"Are you nearsighted?"

"Yes. Can I have them back?"

Claire looked critically at him, nodding. "But I think you look better without them," she said, carefully putting them back on him.

She heard him inhale deeply and when she sat back, hands primly in her lap, he quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Miss Bennet, that was not very proper."

"You sound like my mother when I crossed the ballroom dance floor unescorted last summer. You would have thought I had set the room on fire."

"Claire, I am sure you have set more than one room in flames," he said jokingly.

And then, odd thing, that actually made her blush.

_End of chapter. Easter egg question: who is the younger brother of Mycroft that Claire insulted?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

He felt different. Like wearing different clothes meant he was wearing a different skin and when he handed the man at the door of the club his card, Gabriel held his head up, his gaze cold. He was allowed in. Of course he would be allowed in. It was all about appearances. His charade might have come apart had he spoken, but the club's strict policy on silence was on his side. Gabriel walked quietly through the hallways of the club, heading up the stairs to the third floor.

Claire had given him an indication of the room she thought might harbour the files and he made quick work of the lock: telekinesis and his watchmaker's ability both came in handy. He found the files easily, pulling out a folder neatly labelled "Claire Bennet" and then another one with "Gabriel Gray" scribbled on it.

He met Claire four blocks from the club, feeling surprisingly content after breaking into someone's studio and stealing from him. He never thought he'd do a thing like that but now that it was done, it seemed to matter little if he had committed a wrong or a right.

Besides, he didn't want to trouble himself with his consciousness or his mother's loud admonishments about the "correct path" in life just right then. He had Claire Bennet by his side and even though dear old Virginia would probably say he was making a fool of himself over a girl, and even though she might be right, he didn't give a damn. Ever since he had been a little boy Gabriel Gray had the sneaking suspicion that someone else was eating his lunch and he was left with the breadcrumbs. He felt infinitely tired of the crumbs and decided that for once, he was stretching out his hand and taking what belonged to him. In this case, the admiration of Claire Bennet, who was delighted to see him returning with the papers she coveted.

Together, safely in the Hansom cab, he spent more time admiring her profile than looking at his own folder. She was completely engrossed in her reading and did not seem to notice him until she stopped suddenly and let out a loud gasp.

"What is it?" he asked.

"My parents ... they are not my parents."

"What?"

"They adopted me."

Gabriel did not know what to say. He was thinking of a decent way to commiserate, to show his sympathy, but Claire flipped through the file again, ignoring him. He felt rather lonely sitting in the cab as though Claire had stepped out and left her physical body behind. Sheepishly, he went through his own documents, his hands brushing the onion skin sheets delicately. His fingers fell over a sentence, eyebrows furrowing.

He looked at Claire, who was still engrossed in her own reading and shuffled his papers aside, deciding to look out the window instead. He'd had enough reading.

"What is real?" Claire whispered. "The file says my mother's name was Meredith."

He glanced at her, unsure if she was speaking to him and felt the sudden pressure of Claire's hand over his, fingers clutching his own and then the weight of her head against his shoulder as she leaned on him.

"Claire, do you ... do you still want to meet with that friend of yours?" he asked, swallowing hard.

"Zach? Yes. I do."

"I thought you might not. Pandora's box and all," Gabriel muttered.

"I want to know." Claire tilted her head up to look at him. "You'll come with me? The day after tomorrow?"

"I'm not a police officer," Gabriel said. "I'm not one to go around ..."

"Gabriel, there is no one else I can trust. For all we know, my father could be recruiting this madman to do his bidding. These deaths may go unpunished."

"You are letting your imagination run wild," he protested.

"Look here," she said grabbing a page from her folder and pressing it against his chest. "Meredith. My biological mother. A pyrokinetic. A killer, burning people together with her brother. Part of the Diogenes Club. They find people and they _use_ them. If Leather Apron is a special they'll find him and he will belong to them."

"And if we find the killer first what then?"

"I don't know," she said crossing her arms and looking straight ahead. "I don't know yet."

#

Luke Campbell did a bit of everything: rag-gathering, bone-grubbing and even wading in the mud to look for the occasional copper nail. He earned an odd penny holding a horse or carrying parcels. Sometimes, he also stole. That afternoon, he was busy gathering cigarette butts and putting them together so he could have himself a smoke when he bumped into a tall, thin and well-attired gentleman in black. He almost did not recognize Gabriel Gray, the polite watchmaker who sometimes hired him for little jobs.

He was a decent fellow, Mr. Gray. Too bad he never seemed to catch a break, walking as if perpetually oppressed.

"Hi there," Luke said, rising from the ground and smiling. "You look mighty fancy."

"I was out," Gabriel said, a little uncomfortably.

"I can see that."

"I've got an errand for you."

"What do I got to carry?"

"It's a different kind of errand. I'm trying to find a fellow," Gabriel said pulling out a piece of paper and frowning. "I've got a name and I've got a sketch."

"Let me see," Luke said taking the paper. "Samson Gray? What, you related?"

"I just need to find him. He lived on Brick Lane ten years ago, it says here."

"Ten years is a lifetime."

"It's important."

"He owe you money?" Luke asked and when Gabriel didn't answer he nodded, answering for him in his head. "I'll try. Who knows."

Luke took out a match, lit his makeshift cigarette and watched as Gabriel stepped away. The dark-haired man stopped, hesitated and turned.

"Do you think you can do another errand for me? I need you to take some flowers to a house. It's to ... cheer someone up."

"I got nothing better to do."

"Good," Gabriel said.

Thus, Luke made his way to Cadogan Square, which truth be told was an odd place for him to be going in his grubby clothes and old cap. But he did, thinking Gabriel was sending a gift to a crotchety old aunt or perhaps – lord be merciful – courting some dull spinster. When the maid opened the door she would not let him set a foot in the house, but Luke argued and whined, saying he had been instructed to deliver the flowers to Claire Bennet herself. He made such a fuss that the maid gave up and summoned Claire.

And then, surprisingly, the withered spinster Luke had conjured turned out to be a very young and very pretty blonde in a pale green dress who smiled at the sight of the lilies Luke was holding in his outstretched hand. Gabriel had neglected to send a card so Luke had to speak on the spot. He hemmed and hawed, trying not to sound terribly uncouth. It was a difficult ordeal because the girl was very pretty.

"From Mr. Grey," he said. "He hopes you feel better when you look at 'em."

"I am very grateful," the young woman said, taking the flowers from him.

Luke pressed his cap against his chest and bowed low. She lowered her eyes politely and closed the door.

Luke headed back to his lodging house, hands in his pockets, thinking Gabriel Gray was acting very much unlike himself if he was circling around a woman like that. He wondered if Miss Bennet had anything to do with that Samson man. He wondered if sorry, old Gabriel had finally found a sweetheart, a lady, a someone. He wondered if this was all going to turn out like that business with that dancer – was she a dancer? – Elle. He hoped not.

#

Inside the Bennet household, Sandra was startled by the sound of her daughter's humming. She held her needle in the air, mid-stitch, not able to recognize the sound at first. There hadn't been a lot of humming on Claire's part for quite a while.

Up in her room, Claire Bennet put the lilies in a vase.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

Zachary turned out to be a very young man in a high-collared coat with an air of intelligence and smugness that made Gabriel twitch a little. He arrived to their meeting late, huffing and dumping his coat on the back of a chair, on top of Gabriel's own coat. They were sitting in a very small, crowded tea parlour but it still seemed extremely rude to do such a thing. Gabriel did not protest, held back his tongue.

"Well then, I've got less than half an hour. Twenty minutes, tops," Zachary said as soon as he sat down. "I must warn you now that you can't quote me. Claire said it would be background material. I won't have it on the front page of the _London News_ tomorrow morning."

Claire had told Zachary that Gabriel was a journalist friend of his doing a story on the killings in the East End. It seemed a much convenient explanation. From the way Zachary was looking at him, Gabriel was starting to think "journalist" might be a dirty word in Zachary's dictionary.

"Yes, it's just background," Gabriel said with a nod.

"Mhhm," Zach said, taking out an oblong, silver vesta case and lighting a cigarette. "Claire, you need not sit with us now. Some of the things I will relate may be disturbing."

"Zach, remember who my dad is? I've heard about criminals before," she said very firmly.

"As you wish," Zach said, speaking as though he'd had several similar arguments with her and she had gotten the upper hand on those occasions. "I suppose you know the general disposition of things? Two murders. Both in less than a month and with a striking degree of similarity. The injuries seem to have been inflicted by someone with a certain degree of anatomical knowledge."

"A physician?" Claire asked.

"Oh, not really. A butcher might also recognize the position of the organs. Or someone with access to anatomy books. Annie Chapman was partially strangled before her throat was cut. Her abdomen was laid open, intestines lifted from the body and placed on her shoulder. He also attempted to sever her head. Dr. Phillips thinks he was trying to cut her womb."

Gabriel scrawled in a notebook, carefully writing each word the young man said. He was not interested in the murders. But Claire was. Diligent, helpful, Gabriel was determined to take the meeting seriously, even if the talk of death and knives made him squeamish.

"Are there any leads?" Claire asked.

"A thousand. None," Zach replied. "The area is so heavily populated, there are so many alleyways and side streets. We hear all kinds of rumours, but who knows."

The smoke from Zach's cigarette was giving Gabriel a headache. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired, and hungry. He'd had bad dreams the night before. Once again, he'd woken up recalling Brian Davis' face.

"Was there anything different about the women?" Gabriel asked. "Anything ... special?"

"I do not know what you could be referring to. They were as unexceptional as you might expect a pair of prostitutes from Whitechapel to be."

It had been a silly question. The young man could not possibly know the women had powers similar to Claire and Gabriel's own.

Gabriel's power.

Zach held his cigarette in his left hand, leaned forward, speaking in a lower voice. "Though there is definitely something special about the people involved in the investigation."

"What?" Gabriel asked.

"Oh, you've got Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police. Not exactly unexpected. But then I was asked the other day to show Chapman's body to someone who is not affiliated to either organization."

"Who would that be?"

"Your friend, Mohinder Suresh," Zach said, looking at Claire. "Don't ask me why. All I know is he was with Dr. Henry Jeckyll and Matt Parkman, and apparently they both had come straight from the Diogenese Club to the morgue. Matt asked my uncle and I to step out while they looked at the bodies. Which is extremely bizarre. Then again, Diogenese people seem to have their fingers in many pies. Nathan Petrelli is one of their most prominent members, and he would just die to be the next prime minister."

Gabriel's headache was increasing by the second. He rubbed his temples, tried to listening attentively. The damn smoke. Zach's voice. His smug face.

"My father wasn't there?"

"Why would he?" Zach asked.

"Oh, no reason I suppose," Claire said.

Gabriel was going to get a cold. That's what it was. And he was famished. Then, this whole horrid conversation. No wonder he felt a little dizzy, clutching the pencil he was scribbling with.

"... and then, well, Constable Neil was the first at the scene ..."

"... how did he find her?"

"... blood, oozing everywhere. She had been dead no more than half an hour ..."

"... what instrument?"

" ... knife? scalpel? ... clothing ... ripped open."

_Ripped open._

The pencil broke under the stress of his fingers, an audible sound that made Zach stop his talking. Claire turned towards him.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"I'm a little fatigued," Gabriel said brushing his notebook, bashfully. "This is just all so bizarre."

"Bizarre is the right word," Zach said, pulling out a pocket watch. "I have to run. I have so many other things to do today. It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Grey. Claire was quite enthusiastic when speaking about you. You must be a fine writer."

A lie. He was watchmaker. Would that upset Zach? Was a watchmaker so much smaller than a writer? If he were to walk by his store, would Zachary in his nice, fancy coat pause to look inside? Probably not.

"Very nice meeting you," Gabriel managed to mutter.

Zach kissed Claire's hand and rushed out. In his haste he managed to toss Gabriel's coat onto the floor. Gabriel carefully picked it up, dusting it off.

"I think I ought to head home," Gabriel said.

"Will you be alright?"

"I'm fine."

She pressed a hand against his cheek. "You feel very warm."

Gabriel thought each second she touched him his skin was in danger of bursting up in flames. He pulled back and looked towards the street.

"I'll fetch a cab and take you home," he said awkwardly.

"I can do that myself," Claire replied. "You should go lie down. Sleep."

"No, I can take you," he protested.

Claire shook her head and stepped back, waving goodbye. "Don't bother. We're heading in opposite directions."

Gabriel held his coat and notebook limply in his hands, feeling a bit unsure of how to proceed. Should he press the point? She seemed determined to head off without him. Perhaps she did not want to be seen arriving home with a stranger. Specially him. She was accustomed to the presence of finer men. Men like Zachary, the brilliant young fellow who also happened to be oh, so handsome and wealthy to boot. Was there any fellow in Claire's circle of friends who was not a rich, good-looking dandy?

Why, yes.

There was Gabriel.

He frowned, dejected, as Claire continued to step away.

"Oh, I loved the flowers," she said suddenly. A smile edged with gold, eyes bright and cheery.

Claire spun around, her back now towards him.

He was so glad she had turned away so quickly. Otherwise she might have seen the way his heart lurched forward, beating wildly, and the terrible, agonizing fear that gnawed at him when he realized just how much he was starting to care for Claire Bennet.

#

Luke waited under the awning, rain falling miserably upon the city. He was cold, and hungry. He might have stolen himself a meal, but decided to wait patiently in hopes Gabriel might come home. He'd been waiting for a long time with no signs of Gabriel and was beginning to consider another way to feed himself.

Finally, the watchmaker arrived, walking slowly, and closed his black umbrella.

"Jesus, you look like Death itself," Luke said, jumping to his feet.

"I'm getting a cold," Gabriel mumbled.

He definitely looked pale, dark hair plastered against his forehead.

"What are you here for?" Gabriel asked, struggling to make his key fit in the lock. "Looking for a free cup of tea?"

"Oh, I don't mind one. But I came to tell ya' I found your Samson."

Gabriel jiggled the keys. He pressed a hand against the door. He glanced at Luke.

"You found Samson Gray?"

"Easy as pie. He's at the ol' Colney Hatch Asylum."

Gabriel put the keys back in his pocket. He began to walk away with quick, long strides. Luke blinked, confused.

"Where you going?"

"To Colney Hatch," Gabriel yelled back.

"I thought we were going to have tea!"

Gabriel did not reply. Luke crossed his arms against his chest. He kicked the door, irritated.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

Colney Hatch loomed against the grey sky, imposing and quiet and large. Gabriel knew it by reputation, but had never set a foot near the crowded grounds. That afternoon, as he stepped towards it, he thought the windows glared at him as though the structure had a life, a conscience of its own.

It was surprisingly easy to be allowed accessed to Samson Gray. The nurse who spoke to Gabriel was surprised the old man had a visit, but after Gabriel simply spoke the truth – he was his son – the nurse turned more jovial. He explained that Samson was ill and he did not think he might make it through another winter. The visit was felicitous.

Gabriel was guided to a small, narrow room. The nurse told him that Samson was well-behaved and quiet, and he would let Gabriel speak to him in private for a good twenty minutes, something the nurse might not do for some of the other patients who were less well-adjusted.

Then the door opened and Gabriel walked in.

A wrinkled, skinny man sat in a spare room, next to a simple cot. He looked more dead than alive, hands like talons resting upon his legs; eyes dulled and watery.

Gabriel was not sure what he had expected to see, but it certainly was nothing like the old mummy before him. The file had indicated his father had been a special at the service of the Diogenes Club. A dangerous and unstable special.

"Well, look at you all grown up," Samson said, lips curling into something close to a smile.

"You know me?"

"I am not so dull as to not recognize my own child, though you're certainly bigger than when I last laid eyes on you."

"I don't recall you at all."

"For the better I am sure," the man said with a shrug.

They looked at each other in silence.

"Who is it that told you about me?" the man asked.

"Nobody told me," he said and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, the first page from his own file and handed it to him.

Samson took the page, squinted and gave a little cough. "Aye, the Diogenes Club."

"What do you know about it?" Gabriel asked, pulling the only other chair in the room and sitting before Samson.

"That some very powerful people belong to it. They are secretive. But you must know that already or you wouldn't be carrying this little piece of paper. You must know about the freaks."

"The specials?"

"Is that what they're calling them now? Specials, yes. People with abilities. People who can walk through walls and fly through the air, and do all kinds of extravagant and amazing things."

"People like Meredith Gordon?"

Samson gave him back the piece of paper. "Is that why you're here?"

"You worked with Meredith Gordon. It's in my file."

"Meredith and her brother. A fire starter, that one. A beauty, but dangerous. Could fry you to a crisp if she caught you looking at her the wrong way. She had a boyfriend ... ah, what was the name? Nicholas? Something with an N. I can't recall. My memory is going."

"She had a daughter."

"How'd you know about that?" Samson asked, leaning forward, his eyes growing more interested.

"I know her. The daughter."

"You've come for that? To help me arrange some reunion? 'Tis too late. Meredith is long dead."

"She's dead?"

"She died on a mission," Samson smirked. "It's a pity. I always wanted that ability."

Gabriel has sweating. He licked his lips. He felt his throat, parched as sandpaper, grow dryer still. His voice, when he spoke, sounded deeper, older than he recalled.

"You take abilities," Gabriel said.

Samson's smirk was an ugly gash upon his face; like a knife that carves a semblance of a mouth which is not a mouth. An ugly, deep gash that stretched wider and wider.

"Yes. And you do too."

Gabriel did not answer. Samson chuckled.

"Don't look so surprised. I may be sick and old, but I can still tell when I'm in the presence of someone who is gifted. And I can tell what your ability is, dear boy. I can see it in your eyes. You've got a predator's look about you. Ready for the kill."

Gabriel rubbed his hands against his trousers, unconsciously. "I am a watchmaker. A respectable man."

"What is a respectable fellow doing talking to a madman?"

"I admit, I am experiencing some issues ..."

"How many have you killed?" Samson asked.

Gabriel shook his head, deflecting the question. "How can you control it?"

This time it was not a chuckle. It was outright laughter. Samson threw his head back and laughed. He laughed so hard Gabriel thought tears might begin to flow down his cheeks. Finally, the outburst was interrupted by a sudden coughing fit. Then, the old man grew surly and silent.

"Please, the girl, Meredith's daughter," Gabriel mumbled. "She is ..."

"Your sweetheart? Ha! Stupid fool."

"I have killed one man and one alone," Gabriel confessed, his head hanging low. "I do not wish to hurt Claire. And yet, sometimes ... I feel I must have it. That I must possess her ability."

Gabriel looked up at Samson, desperation obvious in his face.

"It is ..."

"Like a hunger. You are like a man starved for food, aching for a drink. There is no answer but death. Death is the only solution. You kill them. You gain their abilities. The hunger subsides. For a little while."

Samson winked at him. Perhaps the serpent had winked at Eve the same way, when she plucked the apple from the Tree of Knowledge. Gabriel turned his head, his breath caught in his throat.

"The nurse said you are not a violent patient. You must have discovered a solution; a way to suppress it."

"I was twenty-seven when my ability manifested. Fifteen years I used it. Fifteen years I worked for the club, amassing an arsenal of skills. Then, one day, the abilities begin to disappear. One by one they go. They are unable to give me an answer except that this is not unusual; that other specials seem to lose their capacities as they age."

Samson made his hand into a fist, let it fall against his leg in a fury. "Age!" he cried, eyes narrowed. "Normals will grow white hairs while our abilities wither away. Time 'cured' me my boy. It left me barren, no abilities. The Diogenes Club sent me here, eventually."

"Why would they?"

"Because I was of no use to them anymore," Samson said. "Because I'd tried to finish myself off."

Gabriel thought of Claire. Of her ability. Regeneration. Immortality. Wasn't that what he'd told her? What had driven her to tears? Her ability would remain. It could not be stolen.

This knowledge made him dizzy. It made him stand up abruptly.

"Are you afraid now?" Samson asked.

"The people in the Diogenes Club, surely they could help me?" Gabriel asked.

"They'd use you. Like they used me. Like they use everyone. You want to know what the Diogenes Club is: it is everything. Spies, killers, thieves. All of them working for the club. All of them slaves to the masters of the game."

Gabriel felt as though an invisible noose was tightening around his throat.

"You want my advice? Get yourself out of England," the old man said. "Get yourself far and away."

"I can't. Even if they were after me, even if there is danger."

"Because of the girl."

Gabriel did not answer. He went towards the door, his curiosity quite satisfied by the encounter. He did not want to know more. He did not want to hear anything else.

"The girl will die," Samson said casually.

It made Gabriel turn in a fury; his fingers curling, his eyes very black and the face pale, as if all colour had been scrubbed from it.

"I should never let any harm come to her, and if you are threatening ..."

"Me?" Samson's eyes opened wide in mock surprise. "Sick and coughing my lungs out? Me? You are going to kill that girl, mark my words."

"No!" Gabriel said, clutching the door and opening it quickly.

"Like I killed your whore of a mother."

He held on to the door frame, shoulders slumping. Gabriel turned his head a fraction of an inch.

"My mother," he whispered.

"It's in your nature."

Gabriel thought of Brian Davis. The body sprawled before his feet. The intoxicating joy that had cursed through his veins. The rush of power and knowledge.

He recalled Claire's pretty face.

Gabriel slammed the door shut, shaking. He heard Samson's laughter. The pitiful cry of a hyena. Not a man's laughter. Surely not a man.

Surely not his _father_.

He gripped his head, fingers digging into his skull, wishing he could burrow into the brain and pull out the treacherous power he had acquired from Davis. The ability. The hunger that came with it.

Oh, he'd been a fool when he thought abilities were a wonder, a miracle and that he was lucky to be so special. He'd wanted so much to be so special.

Now he saw what the abilities would do to him. What he would become.

What he _became_.

"Oh God," he moaned, and tore himself away from the dreadful door, from the dreadful corridor thick with the whispers and wailing of the mad.

Gabriel fled the asylum like one possessed.

Colney Hatch followed him with its unseeing eyes.

#

In her room Claire looked at the lilies Gabriel had sent.

She took a flower and pressed the slim stalk against her chest.

She thought about him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

Claire's mother had once wondered what Mohinder ever saw in Gretchen. Claire could have explained, but did not bother to do it.

Gretchen was sweet and talkative. When you were with her, she could make your troubles go away just by sitting next to you. Normally, Claire enjoyed every minute they spent together and paid close attention to Gretchen's talk of London society. That afternoon, she was distracted.

Claire kept going back to the two murders that had taken place in Whitechapel. She also kept going back to the watchmaker.

Gabriel, her new friend. He'd sent her flowers.

She liked him.

"... of course I told my mother it seemed in bad taste to throw a party after the two deaths and invite them, but she said it's been planned for ages and that it would lift their spirits."

"Murders?" Claire asked, suddenly snapping back to attention. "You mean the Whitechapel killings?"

"No, silly. I mean Mohinder and Dr. Jekyll."

"What about them?"

"Well, first Mohinder's father is killed and then Danvers Carew is murdered. He was Jekyll's associate. You have met Henry, haven't you?"

Claire couldn't say she had. But suddenly she was very interested in meeting him. Zachary said Mohinder and Jekyll had been at the morgue. Both men belonged to the Diogenes club. Now both men had someone in their circle die a violent death. Was there a connection between this and the Whitechapel killings? Could Mohinder's father and Carew have been specials? Was the killer targeting more than just prostitutes?

"I don't recall," Claire muttered. "How was Carew killed?"

"Beaten with a cane," Gretchen whispered.

It was nothing like the Whitechapel killings. The man who had killed the prostitutes had used a knife. Where there two killers?

"The masked ball is in a week and now I feel everyone will be so gloomy. It'll hardly seem like a party."

"It'll be fine," Claire said, giving Gretchen's hand a squeeze. "You couldn't know. Maybe your mother is right. Maybe it'll lift everyone's spirits."

"Truth is, I'm dreading having to dance with . He's such a terrible dancer, but we are engaged after all," Gretchen said with a sigh. "At least you can pick who you get to dance with. I must stick to him. Will Brody be coming with you?"

"No, I am not on speaking terms with him anymore," Claire said and then, an idea bloomed, fully-formed. "I will need an extra invitation for someone else."

"Someone else?" Gretchen asked. "Is it that Alex Woolsly that came from Devonshire last summer?"

"No. It's just a friend. But you must not tell my mother about him. She wouldn't approve of him."

"Why not?" Gretchen asked curiously.

"He's hardly the kind of person we'd have over for tea."

"Is he handsome?"

"Gretchen."

"He must be if you refuse to answer the question. How old is he?"

"He's just a friend," Claire said. "I don't know. Twenty-nine?"

"Oh, so it is a young fellow and not some old, musty friend. Definitely suspicious."

"Gretchen, there's nothing suspicious about it."

"Then why didn't you answer my question."

"He's not ugly," Claire said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Gretchen snapped her fingers and winked at her. "You're not fooling me."

For a moment Claire wondered if she was fooling herself. She shook her head.

#

The sign on the door said "closed". Claire went to the back of the shop. Just as she'd expected it, there was a little back entrance. She knocked, waiting in the chilly alleyway.

The boy that had delivered some flowers to her opened the door.

"Hi," she said. "Is Gabriel in?"

"Yes. Um ... Miss, I don't think he'll see you. He's in bed."

"I have an invitation for him," Claire said. "Can't you wake him?"

"I'd rather not. He's been ill since yesterday. He caught a bad chill and won't let me go for the doctor," the young man grimaced. "It's pretty bad, miss. I was going to sneak out and fetch the doctor no matter what he says 'cause I'm so worried, but then I'm also worried of leaving him alone. Caught him trying to put on his coat and leave the house last night, that's why I've got to watch him. Deathly pale, he is. And he's making no sense, taking 'bout being hungry and won't eat the soup I made. If he goes out, he'll be sure to catch his death."

"Fetch the doctor and I'll watch over him. I'll make sure he doesn't leave his bed," Claire said.

"Why, thank you," the young man said, brightening up. "The name is Luke. Luke Campbell, miss."

"Nice to meet you, Luke," she said. "I'll stay here, don't you worry."

Claire went up the stairs and into Gabriel's home. She peeked into his bedroom, feeling odd that she should enter a man's room and finally deciding she'd made a promise to Luke. Her inhibitions could be put aside for a little while.

Gabriel's bed was large and he lay on the center of it. Luke had propped him up with numerous pillows and must have taken some care to arrange the covers properly, but Gabriel must have tossed the covers aside. He lay upon his back, his black, loose pajamas contrasting with the whiteness of the bed sheets.

Claire felt suddenly very nervous. Gabriel's face looked waxy. Sweat beaded his forehead. She pressed a hand against his cheek.

He was cold to the touch.

Gabriel's eyes snapped open. He caught her wrist, holding her hand firmly in place.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered.

"Luke went to fetch a doctor," she said. "He'll be back soon. Do you want a glass of water?"

"You don't understand."

He sat up.

"You have to stay in bed," she said.

Gabriel turned his head and stared at her. His eyes were very dark and heavy-lidded. "I suggest you leave now."

"No. I'm supposed to stay with you."

"Then I'll leave," he said, taking two shaky steps and stumbling.

Claire hurried to his side, helping him back towards the bed. He fell backwards and stared at her.

"Claire, it's a hunger."

"Gabriel?"

He was shivering, limbs stiffening. No, he was convulsing.

Claire panicked. She did not know what to do, she tried to hold him in place and then, recalling something she had read in a book, she thought she ought to keep him from biting his tongue off. She leaned over him, ready to stuff a handkerchief in his mouth.

His hands closed around her shoulders, dragging her down.

He embraced her.

Claire thought it must be a mistake and tried to break free. He would not let her. He was like a man holding to a raft in a stormy ocean. He pressed her against his body, arms wrapped tight. Claire felt dizzy, a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. She realized it was desire and it struck her as almost comical that she should find herself in such an awkward position, upon the bed of a man who was probably delirious.

When he released her she felt her cheeks burning with shame, yet there was also a certain thrill spreading through her limbs.

His eyes were half-closed, but when he realized she was staring at him, he turned his head to look at Claire.

"I am afraid of myself," he told her.

"You're tired," she said. "The doctor will be here soon."

"Claire, I don't want to hurt you."

"Rest."

He nodded slowly.

Claire pulled the covers up, until they brushed his chin and lay next to him, but without their bodies touching. He went to sleep quickly and she stared at him, the thick eyebrows and the dark hair and _him_.

What her mother would say about this ... oh, there would be no end to it. When West had broken his unofficial engagement to Claire in order to marry Jacqueline Wilcox the scandal had been mercifully minimized because few people knew that West had proposed. Had a wider circle been aware that Claire and Westley Rosen had been at the verge of marriage, it would have been disastrous.

Decorous behaviour and an impeachable reputation were paramount to a good marriage. A botched engagement could place an ugly wrinkle on a lady's name. What would a _liaison_ with a watchmaker mean?

It was a wild, insane idea.

Chewing her lip, Claire thought she was also afraid of herself.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

He woke with a single thought on his mind and a single name on his lips: Claire.

He was shocked to discover she was really there, standing in his room, arranging some flowers in a vase next to his bed.

Gabriel leaned on his elbow, trying to verify this was not a spectre conjured by his feverish imagination.

"Oh, did I wake you?" she asked, happily, noticing his stare.

"No, you didn't," he rubbed his chin, felt the stubble growing and frowned. "I was having an awful nightmare."

"You've had a fever. Luke told me you went off in the rain, on some business, and didn't even bother trying to fetch and umbrella and when you came come you were ill. The doctor said it was only a chill, but you gave us a scare."

"Luke, yes," he said, the memory of the asylum now returning. He had rushed home, a deep hunger gnawing at him and crashed upon his bed. He remembered Luke stopping by, but little else. "Is he around?"

"I sent him to the market. He's been very helpful. He watched over you last night and this morning, when I came by, he was already in the kitchen making breakfast."

"What time is it?"

"After five," she said.

"And you've been here since morning?"

"Yes. I was worried. You looked awful."

Gabriel nodded. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling it stand up. He wished he could take a bath. He'd like to soak in warm water.

"Do you fancy some tea? I can put the kettle to boil."

"Perhaps later," he said, not wishing to part from her company so quickly. Her presence was comforting, even if he really ought to send her home.

"What did you dream?" Claire asked, sitting on the bed.

Gabriel frowned. It had been a jumble of images, most of them involving blood and violence. Brian Davis appeared in his dream. But it was Claire who had dominated most of his feverish fantasies. He saw himself hurting her, carving her head open and taking her power. There had also been other images in which he did the opposite. Instead of inflicting pain, he delivered tenderness and saw himself kissing her, running his hands down her body.

Sometimes the blood and the desire mixed, and he was carving painful gashes along her thighs, then kissing her in the same spot.

He shuddered.

"Just ... nothing of importance," he said. "Fever dreams."

Yes. Just dreams. He shouldn't let this terrify him.

"You said something about hurting yourself."

"Did I?" he muttered, idly.

Claire bit her lower lip, her hand brushing his. "Luke said you were very sad some time ago. He was afraid you might ... try something."

Gabriel recalled the rope. The attempt at hanging himself. He had botched that, just as he seemed to botch everything.

"An accident," Gabriel lied. "Luke is talking about an accident."

He'd have a conversation with Luke about revealing the personal details of his life later, once Claire was outside his home. The boy was kind, but he blabbered and tended to follow Gabriel around like a lost puppy.

"Oh," Claire looked down, then up at him again, her fingers sliding upon his. "Well, you must be more careful."

She let him go, quickly, as though she had remembered something suddenly. Rising, Claire went back to fiddling with the flowers, pulling out a carnation, then putting it back in the vase.

"I've left an invitation for a party on your dinning room table. I'm hoping you'll go with me."

"A party?" Gabriel asked, confused, as he began to looks for his glasses. Trying to piece himself back together.

"Yes. It's the perfect chance to talk to Henry Jekyll ."

"Pray, who is Jekyll?"

"I'm not sure yet," Claire said. "Zach mentioned him, and then Gretchen said Danvers Carew, Jekyll's friend, had been murdered. It can't be a coincidence, can it? At the very least they are both members of the club."

"The Diogenes Club," Gabriel said as he opened a drawer and found his glasses sitting there. "It seems they are connected to everything."

"What do you mean?"

"I spoke to a fellow about some of the specials of days of old. He said they employ specials as spies and killers. He didn't seem too pleased with the members of the club."

"Who did you speak to?"

"An old man," Gabriel said. "Someone that appeared in my file."

He did not dare to say "my father." That would bring unwelcome questions. Claire frowned.

"And you think at this party, that we'll be able to talk to and he'll tell us something important?" Gabriel asked, trying to move the conversation away from the topic of his file.

"It might. I've never met the man, but who knows? Mohinder will also be at the party. It's a costume party, by the way. You'll need to find yourself a mask."

"A mask," Gabriel repeated.

"Yes. It's actually quite convenient. I might have to explain who you are otherwise, but this way ..."

"This way any poor, old watchmaker can sneak into a ball," he said.

"And then you'll turn into a pumpkin," she concluded.

"Excuse me?"

"You are so melodramatic," she said, leaning down towards him. "You're tall. You have pretty eyes. Your voice is nice. You're ... not a bad looking fellow. You'll fit right in."

She turned, back to her flowers.

Gabriel frowned, eyebrows knitted together.

A compliment. She had just complimented him. Gabriel eyed her from the corner of his eye and caught the faint blush on her cheeks.

Did she really think he was good looking? No, she said "not bad looking." That might mean he merely looked normal. Average. He'd never heard himself described as handsome and couldn't begin to imagine Claire using that word to describe him. She surrounded herself with young men like that Zachary in his nice suit. Surely she wouldn't prefer Gabriel over a man like Zachary?

Or would she?

Elle certainly hadn't. She'd skipped off on the arm of a richer, more attractive gentleman the first chance she had.

Gentleman. That was the key word. Average or not, Gabriel was far from a gentleman.

And yet she was blushing.

Gabriel rose, padded the few steps necessary to reach Claire, his arm brushing hers. She put a flower down, on the table, and looked up at him.

"Claire, do you think ... sometimes ..."

"Oh, you're up! That's great!" Luke yelled, cheerfully interrupting them as he walked in.

Gabriel took two steps back. Claire whirled around, placing her hands behind her back and facing the boy.

"What are you up to?" Luke asked, smiling.

"Tea," Claire said. "I ought to boil some tea."

"Oh, good," Luke said, rubbing his hands. "I wouldn't mind a cup myself. You wouldn't believe how chilly it is today. Can you put two lumps in mine? I always love it sugary, when I can have it. It's not so often you have tea with a pretty lady."

"Two lumps, then," she said.

Claire smiled at Luke as she walked out the door. The young man beamed at Gabriel, the noticing his surly expression, paused.

"What's wrong?" Luke asked.

"Nothing," Gabriel grumbled, falling back into bed with a frown.

#

Isaac had done it again. He had painted another violent, terrible picture. A corpse, dismembered, awful, lay splayed upon a bed. You could not make out the face of the victim, for it was in shadows. There was a hint that she was a blond, a few strands of hair visible upon the pillow.

He had spent the past few days unable to paint anything else. Commissions went unattended, appointments were canceled. He was like a man possessed. A man who could only paint scenes of senseless destruction. When it was not blood, it was darkness. He had also taken to painting a lean, long figure in black. Harsh brushstrokes made the stranger's body and his face was a smudge, but Isaac felt there was something uncanny and evil about the figure in black.

He wanted to stop painting. He wanted to clear his head and sketch pleasant, beautiful images. But he could not. To lull himself, to at least slow down the feverish pace of his artwork, he had taken to spending an inordinate amount of time at the opium dens.

But even there he was not safe. Yesterday, he had traced a figure upon the wall of the den, using a pencil he had found laying about.

The drawing bore the unmistakable outlines of the figure in black.

The man in black.

Isaac looked at his latest painting and shuddered.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

Claire was a swan. She wore a half mask of white feathers and a white dress with small crystals along the bodice. Her mother had lent her a string of precious pearls, which, together with her long gloves, completed the picture.

Claire sat next to Gretchen, chatting amicably, under the gaze of her brother. He was supposed to keep her from doing something silly. Like walking across the dance floor by herself, finishing everything on her plate during dinner or baring her ankles. She'd done all of these at some point in her life, much to the censure of her mother. Claire's mother thought that Lyle could rein her in. But Claire knew, based on previous experience, that his attention span was short and sooner or later he would tire of playing the watchdog and go in search of the punch and the company of others.

A few moments after Lyle wandered away, a man stopped next to her. He wore a simple, white mask, which she recognized, having picked it herself.

"Claire," he muttered.

"What took you so long?" she muttered.

"I promised I would be here."

"Sir, have we been introduced?" Gretchen asked, peering curiously at Gabriel.

Claire fanned herself, while Gabriel placed his hands into his pockets.

"I'm Claire's friend, miss," he answered politely.

"Claire's friend?" Gretchen said, pressing her fan against her cheek with unsuppressed delight. "Are you the little watchmaker?"

"Gretchen," Claire mumbled, elbowing her.

Gretchen lowered her head, giggling. "Well, it is, isn't it? The young man?"

"I told you that so you'd let me be. Lord!" Claire grumbled, jumping to her feet and glaring at her friend. "Sir, will you escort me to the refreshment table?"

"Um. Yes," Gabriel said, giving her his arm.

Once they were away from Gretchen, Claire let go of him and slid next to a column, watching dancers twirling to a waltz. She hoped he wouldn't notice the slight blush on her cheeks.

"Please forgive Gretchen," Claire said. "She's a bit nosey."

"What did she ..."

"Well then, lets get back to business," she said, cheerfully clasping her hands in an effort to stop him from asking any more questions about Gretchen.

"Of course," he said. "What are we doing?"

"I told you. Just chatting. You see that man over there in brown? He's Matt Parkman. He's my father's friend. Go talk with him," she urged him.

"What? Just like that? He doesn't know me."

"Introduce yourself. Say you are Alex Woolsley's older brother."

"Who is that?"

"Just someone I know. Matt will recognize the name because he's met him, but he's never talked more than half a dozen words to Woolsley, so he probably won't have any idea who you are. You also do look a bit like Alex."

"Is he some rich man? Claire, I am not ..."

"Just talk to him. Ask him about the Diogenes Club. Say you are thinking of joining. Matt knows what's going on with the specials and these murders. If we can learn something useful, we'll be one step closer to getting the answers we are looking for."

"This is insane," Gabriel muttered. "What are you going to do?"

"I am going to introduce myself to Henry Jekyll."

"You'll what?"

Claire pushed herself away from the column. Gabriel watched her, helpless, opening his mouth and closing it. She nodded at him and made her way across the room.

A lady was not supposed to engage a gentleman to whom she had not been properly introduced, but this was an exception and Claire put aside her mother's instructions on proper etiquette and readied her smile.

"Mr. Jekyll, you look a bit glum. Are you not going to dance?" she asked.

The man was wearing a black domino. He sported a well-tailored suit. His hair was brown, peppered lightly at the temples. She guessed him perhaps in his early forties, with an air of relaxed refinement. He peered down curiously at her, with some confusion.

"Have we met, miss..."

"Claire Bennet," she said. "I don't think so, but we have a mutual friend. Mohinder Suresh is a regulat at my house and our host's daughter, Gretchen Berg, pointed you out to me."

"Well, then it is a pleasure to meet you Miss Bennet."

"You'll think this silly, but Gretchen was talking about some of the people attending tonight, and when she mentioned you and said you were a scientist, I was quite interested."

"Do you have an interest in science?" he asked, sounding curious.

"Oh, I've only become interested in it lately. My mother says I shouldn't preoccupy myself with such things, but I find the modern marvels of our century fascinating. I was reading, just the other day, about some of Elizabeth Garrett Anderson's work."

Henry Jekyll's eyes were a deep blue, and had been narrowed as he listened to her explanation, but now they widened merrily. His thin, decided mouth curved into a smile.

"I think I'll have to disagree with your mother. I think scientific inquiry should be a goal of both men and women."

"Wonderful," Claire said clasping her hands. "I shall tell her that."

"So are you interested in the London School of Medicine for Women?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to be a surgeon," Claire said smoothly. "I think I'm more taken with the work of Mohinder's father. Have you read _Activating Evolution_?"

"That's a curious choice," Jekyll said, smoothly. "How did you come upon such a book?"

"It's in my father's library. I found it fascinating. You've read it, I can surmise."

"Yes, I have," the man said, nodding. "Explosive in its theories."

"But possible?"

"I've actually been researching something related to it together with Mohinder, to be perfectly honest. We've hit a bit of a dead end, even with my expertise."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Claire said. "What is your area of expertise?"

"Chemistry, mostly. Though some friends of mine call it unscientific balderdash."

"Ha. Why?"

"I think most people would call Chandra Suresh's theories in general balderdash."

"You mean the abilities."

"And the detection of said abilities."

"But of course, you disagree."

"I disagree on many points, Miss Bennet. That is the benefit of being somewhat of an eccentric."

She noticed that Lyle was glancing in her direction. She knew that in a few minutes he would trot over, like a good brother, in an effort to chaperon her. She needed more time.

Jekyll noticed her worried stare and glanced in the same direction.

"Your dance partner?" he asked.

"My brother," Claire said with a sigh, "ready to drag me off."

"Well, that is a pity," he said. "Here, take my card."

Henry Jekyll handed her a crisp, small card with his name neatly printed on it.

"I must warn you, I might be in my laboratory if it is early in the day, but you are welcome to call on me in the early part of the evening."

"Thank you," Claire said, placing her hands behind her back and grinning.

"You know, I think my assistant, Mr. Hyde would be delighted to meet you," the doctor said. "Do stop by sometime."

Claire whirled around, returning to her place by the column. When she felt a hand on her arm, she thought it was her brother.

"Lyle, stop being such a busybody," she muttered.

"I thought I was supposed to be a busybody tonight," Gabriel replied.

Claired blinked and looked up to see Gabriel next to her. She smiled, relaxing under his gaze.

"Sorry, I thought my little brother was spying on me. He can be nosey."

"Mmm. Matt is a little drunk and enthusiastically talked about his son and other matters, but said very little about the Diogenes Club. Except to mention they are meeting in a week's time, on October 1."

"Did he talk about the murder case?"

"No. What about Jekyll? Was he more forthcoming?"

"I have this," Claire said raising her hand and showing him the card, "and an invitation to call on him."

"Truly? How did you manage that?"

Claire shrugged. "I think he likes me," she said flirtatiously. "He has an interesting look to him, don't you think?"

"Oh," Gabriel said. "Claire ..."

She regretted her words. Gabriel suddenly seemed visibly deflated. She was about to say that she was joking, but stopped when she noticed Gabriel's head jerking, stiffly, to the right. Claire looked over her shoulder.

Eleanor Bishop was, as usual, hanging from Peter Petrelli's arm. She had chosen to wear a _domino_ on a stick, which covered little of her face since she kept laughing and pulling it down.

_Well, there's a _real _flirt,_ Claire thought.

She had never liked Miss Bishop. She was too loud, too boisterous, crackling with energy and barely contained malice. Although she didn't know Peter too well, she thought he had made a curious choice when he set his eyes on Eleanor.

Claire turned to look back at Gabriel, only to see him hurrying towards one of the double doors of the ballroom. Claire hesitated for a few seconds, before quickly following.

He was quick and long-limbed, and Claire soon found herself outside Gretchen's house, lifting her skirts to run after him in order to keep up with him.

"Gabriel!" she said. "What are you doing? It's not time to leave yet."

"It is for me," he replied, without slowing down.

"Will you stop for a second? I'm out of breath. My corset is killing me."

"No."

"What is wrong with you?"

"I saw someone I know."

"What? Peter Petrelli?"

Gabriel did not answer. Claire huffed, deciding to take another guess. "Eleanor Bishop?"

"Her name is Elle," Gabriel said, snapping back at her. "At least, I think it is."

"How do you know Eleanor?" Claire asked. "Wait ... Elle? That was your _girlfriend Elle_?"

No sooner had the words slipped out of her mouth, that Claire regretted having said anything. Gabriel ripped his mask off and glared at her, eyes ablaze.

"Who told you about that?"

"Luke," Claire said. "It was when you were sick last week. He said that was why ... you'd tried to hurt yourself once."

"Oh, great. Did he also tell you what I have for breakfast and supper?"

"He didn't mean anything mean by it. You talked about hurting yourself, and I told him, and he was worried. He was really worried you'd try and hang yourself again."

"Don't be concerned. I tend to fail at that too," Gabriel spit out, crumpling the mask and tossing it onto the ground.

"Look. It doesn't matter. And you didn't have to run out of the party just because Eleanor Bishop is there. I mean, you don't really ..."

"I didn't need to be humiliated again, Claire. Although I suppose you wouldn't know what that feels like. Girls like you and Elle can go through life, stomping on other people without ever caring how much they hurt them."

"Like me and Elle?" Claire said, her voice rising. "Why would you think I have anything in common with her?"

"Look at yourself," Gabriel said spreading his arms. "You are a beautiful, bored young woman. Because, lets face it Claire, that is the reason why you are interested in this whole murder mystery. It's not civic duty. No. You just woke up one day and finding nothing better to do decided this was a great hobby. That is exactly what girls like you do: they are flighty. I'm sure come next month something new will have caught your attention. Or someone."

"What the hell are you going on about?"

"Mr. Parkman, Claire. He didn't talk much about murderers, but he did ask if Alex had finally gotten engaged to you, and when I say 'I wouldn't know about that,' he replies 'Not surprised. Wasn't she engaged with that Rosen boy and then broke it up? I think she changes her tune each season.'"

Claire closed her eyes. Parkman had a loose tongue, specially after he'd been drinking. She wasn't surprised he'd said such a thing. She was surprised Gabriel would repeat it.

"But maybe I'm wrong," Gabriel said pointedly. "I'm just the little watchmaker."

Claire straightened her shoulders and gave him an icy, determined look.

"You are," she said, managing a bitter smile. "Small and inconsequential. I don't think I'll be needing you anymore, mister."

She stomped back towards Gretchen's house, head high, steps never faltering. Only when she was inside and safely standing in a quiet, lonely hallway did she press her back against the wall and let out a sob. She could hear the music from the dance. The voices nearby.

For a moment she thought of heading back outside and seeing if Gabriel was still there.

And say what? Sorry? After what he'd told her?

"Claire! There you are," Gretchen said, rushing towards her. "Lyle is looking for you."

"Oh, Lyle," Claire groaned. "I'm fine. I needed to sit down by myself for a bit."

"Do you want to get some punch?" Gretchen asked, linking Claire's arm with her own. "I saw you talking to Henry Jekyll. What happened to that other man? The younger fellow?"

"That man?" Claire said, chuckling. "No, no. That was no one. Now Jekyll. I think that's someone I _ought_ to know."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

"So you are here, come to tell me about a premonition? Dear man, a murderer runs around London and you bother me with these frivolities?"

Matt Parkman pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Quacks, loonies and liars had sprung aplenty from all corners of London, ready to spin the most outrageous stories about the killer haunting Whitechapel. Some said this was the work of a homicidal midwife. There was even some tale going around that the Duke of Clarence was responsible for the deaths.

Just yesterday the Central News Agency has received a letter from the supposed killer, who called himself Jack the Ripper. Parkman had not seen the letter – it was yet to be forwarded – but it was just one in another long string of hoaxes.

Parkman stared at Isaac Mendez. He was at the breaking point.

"Mr. Mendez, if you do not leave now, I'll have to lock you up," Parkman said.

"For what?"

"For trying my patience. Out."

Isaac rose, pressing his hat against his chest. "I will leave. But I'm telling you, the next death will take place soon. It shall be a blonde woman."

"Aye, aye," Parkman muttered, waving him away.

#

The servant stared at Claire, looking unsure. She presented the card and smiled.

"Is the doctor expecting you?"

"Tell him it's Miss Bennet."

"Oh, Dr. Jekyll never receives someone this early. He's been in his lab all night and will not want to come downstairs."

Claire shook her head, a hand on her hip and frowned, her pretty eyes narrowing. "He will want to see _me_," she said.

The servant scurried away, looking intimidated and she was ushered inside, into a cozy little parlour. Claire peered through the curtains and saw that a yard – perhaps once a garden, now empty of flowers or plants – led to a large, rather dingy, gray building.

"My laboratory. I bought this house from a surgeon who utilized it as a dissecting room, but my tastes run more chemical than anatomical."

Claire turned around. Henry Jekyll looked a little bleary-eyed, but he smiled at her.

"It looks quite awful."

"One does not need pleasing views and beautiful ornaments when performing experiments."

"Are your experiments keeping you up late?"

"Ah, yes," he said, rubbing his stubble. "You've discovered my secret."

"I'd love to take a tour of the laboratory, if I could. I've never been inside one before."

"Now?"

"You've discovered my secret: I was perfectly bored this morning and thought I'd stop by for some entertaining conversation."

"I'm sure there are much younger and pleasant men to converse with you, Miss Bennet."

Claire thought of Gabriel, with his timid smile and parted hair. She shook her head petulantly.

"Not lately."

"Well then," he said. "I need to head back there anyway. I'll give you a brief tour. I'm expecting some company today and can only spare a few minutes."

"A few minutes are perfectly fine."

They crossed the yard and Dr. Jekyll let her in through a side door, into the large laboratory. Claire stepped in, feeling a little unnerved by the place. They were standing in what once had been the surgical theatre where students took their lessons. It was a large room which must have been full of chatter and vibrancy, now grown gaunt and silent. Claire looked up. Light streamed dimly through a cupola, straining to illuminate the darkness. She saw many crates strewn upon the floor, tables laden with vials and glasses and objects she did not recognize. Piled upon a table were heaps of books. One was open and she peered at an anatomical drawing of a man.

"It's all very dull, as you can see," Jekyll said. "Measuring ingredients. Mixing them. Observing reactions."

"Does Mohinder also do much of his work here?"

"Some."

At the other end of the room she noticed a flight of stairs leading to a door covered with a red baize.

"And there?" she pointed. "Do you keep more instruments?"

"That is my dull, old cabinet. I sometimes sleep there when I am working late at night on my experiments. Nothing to see except for a cheval-glass and my desk."

"You should show me how you conduct one of these experiments. It must be very instructional."

"Some other time, Miss Bennet," he said kindly.

#

Henry Jekyll locked the door and smiled, listening to the sound of Claire's footsteps receding as she walked away from the laboratory.

"Are you mad?" Mohinder said, emerging from behind the red baize. "I thought she might come in here and find me."

"What if she did?" Henry said with a shrug. "She knows we work together."

Mohinder scowled at him. "You ought to have dismissed her."

"Why? She knows nothing."

"No matter," Mohinder muttered. "If she's running around with Gabriel, then it's only a question of time before he carves her into ribbons. And if they connect her with us…"

"That's the thing, though," Henry said. "He's not carving her into anything. He's restrained himself. Why?"

Mohinder seemed puzzled. He shrugged. "He has not felt like it."

"Ah, but that is very curious. Sylar has shown little restraint. Yet he pauses and hems, and remains hidden in the presence of that which should set him off like kindle. We should investigate this further."

"You may be right. But this is Claire Bennet. She is wilful and stubborn, and if we let her continue to dig into this business, we'll come to regret it. I already am. This whole idea is insanity and what we are doing …"

"You shouldn't say that out loud, Mohinder. You know how the Company feels about such things."

Mohinder snapped his mouth shut, his eyes rather large with fear. Henry shrugged. He was not going to report him, but he did not want the younger man getting any novel ideas, either. This was delicate research that had taken years to amass. The compound worked. All they needed to do was refine it. That was their task. Missteps would result in harsh punishment. A punishment Henry wanted to avoid.

"I am just saying Claire's desire to investigate these murders might lead her to unsavoury conclusions," Mohinder mumbled.

"Oh, don't be paranoid, dear chap. She's just a socialite who fancies herself the equal of Mr. Holmes. Nothing further from the truth, of course."

"And if she…"

"Then we shall deal with it," Henry said, his voice harsh and biting. "The same way we deal with other annoyances."

Mohinder nodded.

Henry felt Mr. Hyde unfurl a smile deep within him.

#

Isaac Mendez stared at the painting. He stepped back. The brush slipped from his fingers, red paint spilling upon the floor.

No doubt about it. He had finally sketched a face, a recognizable likeness had emerged. The blonde woman who haunted his paintings: he knew her.

"Claire," he muttered. "I should …"

"Warn her?"

Isaac had no time to look at his attacker. The blade sliced at his neck and he stumbled forward, tipping the canvas over.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

She took off her gloves.

Claire was not sure what she was doing standing outside his shop, hands clasped behind her back. She was not sure of anything except that she missed him.

She wanted to tell him what she'd found out – her suspicions that Dr. Jekyll had something to hide and the rumours that his assistant was an unsavoury chap with a violent streak – but had refrained from sending a single message to Gabriel.

Yet there she was, drawn like a magnet.

She was there to update him on the investigation, that was all, Claire tried to tell herself. Though there was nothing solid to it, nothing but some papers she'd glimpsed the last time she'd visited Jekyll – she'd seen him twice and feared she'd run out of excuses to return.

The papers were a slim thread on which to hang any hopes of progress. They consisted of a copy of _Activating Evolution _and notes on it, plus anatomical drawings like the ones you could find in medical texts. She'd seen these in this library, when she'd asked to borrow some books, but his hands had quickly swept over the desk where the things lay, tossing them into a drawer. Later they dined together and she asked about his laboratory, but he gave no signs of being interested in showing it to her.

So here was Claire, with little gained, waiting outside Gabriel's shop and she did not even know what she waited for.

"He's gone out."

Claire turned around. "Oh."

The young man, Luke, took off his cap and pressed it against his chest. "Sorry, miss, I should have said 'greetings' and not been so blunt but seeing as you're here and he's not, I thought I'd speak up."

"When is he coming back?"

"Couldn't say."

Claire nodded, her hands clenching around the gloves she'd taken off. Her palms were sweaty. She turned her face, irritated.

"I was going to let myself in and drop the groceries he has me purchase each week. Bit of bread and sausage and cheese. Would you ... ah, like to come in? It'll rain for sure and might as well wait inside for him. If you want to wait, that is."

Claire looked at the sky, grey and still. Rain it might but she had not even decided if she wanted to speak to Gabriel. She had hoped for a glimpse, perhaps a word ... but to wait for him, to face him completely and ... then what? She was not about to apologize.

"I suppose I could stay for a few minutes."

Luke nodded, brightly. He opened the door and took her upstairs. Claire sat in an overstuffed chair, staring at the books around her until Luke poked his head and smiled, sheepishly.

"I can't stay. I'm afraid," he said. "But don't mind that. You can stay 'til he comes. I'm sure he won't mind."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Claire said, springing to her feet, ready for a hasty escape.

"It's no business of mine, miss, but he's looking awful bad these days."

Claire did not reply. She squeezed the gloves, still between her hands.

"Something's eating him inside. Perhaps ... perhaps whatever it is, a word with you might cheer 'im up."

There was such hope in Luke's eyes, such childish optimism that she was unable to say no. She nodded instead and Luke, visibly relieved, excused himself with a sprint in his step.

Alone, with only his books for company, Claire slumped onto the chair once more. She stared at a clock across from her until quite some time had passed and closed her eyes, weary and tired.

When she opened them again the room had gone dark. She could not see the clock any longer and the bookcases were pieces of black.

She'd dozed off and it was late. She'd told her mother she was spending the evening at Gretchen's before her friend left for her country estate as she did every fall. A useful lie. Now Claire feared she'd dallied too long and would be wanted at home.

Rising, Claire hurried towards the murky, grey rectangle that she thought was a doorway only to have the little light filtering through it blocked by a piece of darkness.

Claire gasped, startled, and took a step back.

The shape had a human shape, tall and slim. She spoke, her voice sounding very thin. "Luke? Did you come back?"

"Claire Bennet."

The words were low, a paper-thin whisper which sent a chill down her spine.

"Gabriel," she said, because she recognized the voice if not the tone he used.

Relief coursed through her veins. She relaxed, squinted at the darkness and tried to smile.

"No."

Rough hands pressed against her neck. Startled, she froze for a few seconds, then tried to beat him back as the fingers dug into her neck.

Her gloves fell to the floor as she raised her hands.

#

He struck the match and the oil lamp bloomed into golden life, illuminating the girl's face.

Sylar frowned. He ought to have pretended to be Gabriel and dismissed her. Now he had an unconscious girl on his bed. Thank God for Jekyll's handy chloroform or she might have woken up already.

Damn Jekyll. Just two days ago, after he killed that stupid painter and reported to him, the doctor had asked if Gabriel had seen Claire lately. Sylar said he didn't think so. He couldn't remember everything Gabriel did – it was like trying to look under water – but he thought he'd know that. Claire left clearer impressions in poor Gabriel's head.

_What about you? Have you seen her?_, the doctor had asked.

_Me? How?_

_At some point. She has been spending time around Gabriel._

_Around Gabriel. Not me. _

_Ah, then. So you've never shown yourself to her._

_I thought I'd told you that last time. _

_I'm making sure. _

_I've done as you asked. She is off the list._

_Of course she is. But you can be ... wilful. It's so kind of you to steer away from her course. _

_I have little interest in her. _

Sylar hadn't really wondered why Jekyll had asked about Claire. He'd been too busy and uncomfortable at the time with the damn testing to ask much.

Then, when it was over, Jekyll had scolded him for spending too much time as Sylar, lest someone discover his little secret. Sylar did not protest, but felt his gut churn in anger. Jekyll spoke as though Sylar were the parasite when it was Gabriel who should cease to exist.

Still, he kept quiet, because without Jekyll it was Sylar who would disappear.

In a pique of anger, instead of slinking back into nothingness, Sylar had injected himself another couple of times and spent forty-eight blessed hours as himself.

What was the harm?

Well, he'd found out just now, returning home, planning to drift into sleep and letting Gabriel take over ... and instead choking Claire when she surprised him.

If he hadn't been so damn tired – the trick of being Sylar demanded much energy – he would have easily fooled her. But he was not in tip-top shape and he'd reacted with violence, purely on instinct.

The question now was what to do with the girl.

He considered getting a hold of Jekyll, but brushed the idea off, for now at least.

Sylar leaned down to get a better look at Claire. He had never seen her through his own eyes though that first night it had been him who had egged Gabriel to help the girl, him straining behind the other's skin and trying to peer at her, like a ghost that haunts a house he once dwelt in.

Now he looked at her, saw her completely, no veil or vague mist to hide her. Blond, petite Claire, as pretty as a doll. Special, immortal little Claire.

He could feel her power. It made the palms of his hands tingle.

He wondered, idly, if she could die. She'd looked dead on the painter's canvas before he'd slashed it to pieces. If he took out her organs, cut out the heart and liver, could she still heal? Perhaps he'd take the top of her head off. Jekyll had half-seriously suggested that the last time, saying that's how his father had done it.

_Bah_, Sylar thought, because he did not consider the skeleton in that asylum his father. As far as he was concerned he'd sprung fully-formed into the world. That man was _Gabriel's_ father. Sylar preferred to think of himself as kinless.

Sylar rubbed his palms together.

Anyway, he wanted the power. He was hungry.

Claire was not on the list. Jekyll had made the list and given him clear instructions. He should not take the power.

He leaned forward a bit more, his fingers brushing away a lock of hair from her face.

Jekyll was not there and he was very hungry, very tired and if he did not do _something_ soon he was going to pass out and Gabriel would resurface.

Sylar took out the neatly folded list and looked at it. The letters swam before his eyes.

Jekyll had said only the people on the list. Sylar had been careful.

He crumpled the list in his fist and bit his lip.

He looked at the young woman. She looked rather content as she slept. If he took her power now and killed her, well ... it was not a bad way to die. Better than others. Better than the painter. And wasn't this what Jekyll had been half-expecting of him? Why not do it, then?

_No_, said something inside him and Sylar frowned, irritated.

Was that Gabriel rattling in his head?

He was in charge. Gabriel was _nothing_.

Sylar jammed the list back in his pocket. He dimmed the light of the lamp.

In her sleep Claire smiled.

He wanted her dead in that moment, if only for the sharp, undeniable pang the smile caused him.


End file.
